not an angel
by Renhi
Summary: "It hurt, like someone ripped off a limb and I couldn't function right, no matter what I did. Always uneven, always less than enough, always." He shakes his head slowly and breathes in, once, twice, thrice. "And it hurt, just hurt so much, and I couldn't think and do anything because of the fact that you weren't there with me." (post-Reichenbach)


**Author's Note: **Unbeta'd, and written about an year ago-ish, when I had really horrible Reichenbach feelings and I couldn't stop crying. This fic basically wrote itself, in some parts, and I have no idea how I got this monster out of my head.

**not an angel**

* * *

Leopard print miniskirt. Works in a clothing boutique, judging by the slightly worn edges of her fingertips and traces of paper cuts from the price tags. Late twenties, recently broke up with boyfriend and is currently going through a string of men to try and get over him. Mediocre intelligence–on the dumb side, rather–and a lack of effort that seems to permeate from her like overly done perfume. Suffering from mild depression and attempting to cover it with flashy clothes and jewelry. _Obnoxious._

He misses 221B Baker Street. Sherlock sweeps around the tube for anyone that looks even the slightest bit interesting, but finds none and unconsciously hunches his shoulders together with a small sigh. The inconspicuous grey hoodie does nothing to soothe his boredom: he wants his coat back. The hoodie rubs awkwardly against the ratty blue seat of the tube, and it takes him a decent amount of self-restraint to not stand up and start pacing around the tube, yelling "Dull, dull, dull!"

Everything is so _boring_. He wants John.

_Everyone in this world is so bloody _useless, he thinks bitterly as he stares at a man in front of him. _Everybody but John_. Mid-forties, one daughter that is in her late teens, recently lost his wife. Sad eyes, a hint of bitterness in his cloudy brown eyes, thinning hair with tints of gray.

As if he could _fake_ his skills in deduction. Ha, how absolutely _stupid_ people can be!

There are so many idiots in the world: such as those who dare to threaten him. He will ruin Moriarty and his _empire_ for being foolish enough to threaten those who form his _heart_.

There are no dramatics in that statement. This is the truth—the obvious. He does not take well to being threatened. He _especially _does not take to things that are _his_ that are threatened. John is _his_. The moment Moriarty strapped a bomb vest to him, the _moment_ John was forced to parrot his own _death_—_"I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."_—he was out for blood.

Sherlock presses his back into the hard, worn-out cushion of his chair and waits for time to pass, forcing his anger to simmer out. He clenches his fist and slowly watches his fingers spread out, opting to observe his own anatomy than force himself to watch such uninteresting people.

He feels the stares of strangers on him, prickling like little electric shocks on his skin, and he shrugs off the attention by taking out his phone and scrolling down the inbox. The watchers slowly look away from his general direction to something else, and he mentally rolls his eyes in annoyance. It is best to stay as inconspicuous as possible when one is supposedly dead, after all. There are no new messages (except for some that are from Mycroft, the sodding bastard) but he skims through the messages anyway, rereading the ones that John sent him a few months ago, before the fall.

Frankly, he doesn't care about the stares. He wants to go back to 221B Baker Street, lie down on the couch, and possibly get some bullets in the spray-painted smiley face (that has no reason to be happy) on the wall. He wants to drink tea that has gone cold a few hours ago, wants to watch John move about the flat dodging anything relatively dangerous on the floor with sounds from crap telly shows behind him, tickling his ear.

Suddenly, there is a new text.

It is from John.

_I don't know why I'm sending this. You're not even here anymore. JW_

His eyes widen as he reads the short message. Once again, John Hamish Watson has surprised him. He is not sure how he does it, how he _continues_ to defy what Sherlock deems to be the obvious, but it has happened once more and there's a small ping of happiness that feels nice, but _wrong_.

_This is—this is ridiculous. I shouldn't be texting a dead man's phone. JW_

He breathes in. He can't tell John he's alive, he has to ruin Moriarty's criminal organization first—_then_ he can go back to the comfort of 221B Baker Street.

_Bloody hell, Sherlock, stop this. JW_

Before he can completely comprehend what John is trying to make him 'stop doing', another text pops up.

_Stop it, just stop being dead. For me. JW_

The words are resting on his fingertips: with just a few taps, he can tell John that he's _alive_, that he is doing everything he can to hurry back.

Instead, Sherlock clutches the phone to his chest as if John's texts will heal all of his aches and closes his eyes as the tube shudders to a halt. He's being unreasonable, he _knows_, but John Watson makes him completely irrational and waves him off the path of deduction. The others in the tube are standing up, so he slowly gets on his feet. This is the last stop—he waits for the door to slide open with a mechanical whirl and exits the tube amidst a huddle of people, all uncaring and absolutely dull.

His eyes momentarily scan the area, and he soon finds Mycroft's assistant—Vega, this week—waiting for him next to a telephone booth near the stairwell. If he wants, he can easily get this phone disconnected. No more text messages that can sway him, no more nostalgic thoughts about 221B Baker Street, and yet—

Instead, Sherlock puts his phone in the large pocket in his hoodie and clutches it tightly with his left hand, as if it can never be too close to himself.

—he can't let it go.

It seems that he is more human than he allows himself to be.

It's a frightening prospect.

* * *

_He closes his eyes and inhales._

_Exhales._

_Counts the one-hundred and forty-seven different types of tobacco ash and the intricate differences of them. _

_He holds his phone and finally types in a reply, unable to let this opportunity escape:_

_Sherlock? Who's that? I think you have the wrong number, mate._

* * *

"You're being childish," Mycroft chides him when he steps into his office.

Sherlock glares at him in annoyance.

"Contacting Doctor John Watson after your grand fall, Sherlock? Mummy won't be proud."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

Mycroft leans forward and rests his elbows on his table. "How long will this take?"

"Two years."

"One."

"Two. This isn't my going out on a fun tour, Mycroft; I'm going out to exterminate the empire that Moriarty had set for himself."

"Sherlock," Mycroft reprimands with a heaving sigh. The creases on his forehead become more visible than usual as Mycroft rubs his fingers against his temples in a soothing pattern, hiding his expression from his younger brother as he runs it down his face.

"Shut up, Mycroft."

"You'll ruin Doctor Watson, you know. He's completely heartbroken."

"You can't change my mind. Sod off."

Mycroft watches him from the corner of his eye. "I'll keep an eye on him," Mycroft states, voice resigned, closing his eyes as he listens to the quiet ticks of the grandfather clock at the corner of his office.

Sherlock inhales deeply, surprised to find that he'd caught his breath the moment Mycroft mentioned John. "…thank you."

The very instant Sherlock leaves the room with Vega by his side, Mycroft's body crumples into itself as he allows himself a moment of weakness. He gives himself ten seconds to mourn for the loss of his brother before looking up and taking in a deep breath and slowly letting it seethe through his teeth. He has a country to run.

* * *

_I'm sorry. Who is this? JW_

_Name's Benedict, but everyone calls me Ben._

_Oh. I'm sorry for bothering you, Ben. JW_

_I don't mind at all, actually. It was bloody boring around here._

_Was it? Well, I'm glad I could take away some of that boredom, then. JW_

_Say, are those two letters your initials?_

_Right, didn't introduce myself. I'm John. It's nice to meet you. JW_

_It's nice to meet you, John._

* * *

That very night, Sherlock gets on a jet to Switzerland. He has a few leads that'll get him closer to completely eradicating Moriarty's empire than before. He has pondered the idea of subterfuge, but it'll be far too normal and not as creative as he can be.

It is the start of a very long two years, marked with isolation and countless hours of investigation and deduction.

He is going to burn Moriarty's heart out.

* * *

_So, what are you exactly?_

_I'm a doctor. Not working at the moment, though. JW_

_Why not?_

_There're just a lot of things going on, I guess. JW_

_That's a shame._

_Why? JW_

_Just thought that you'd be a trusty doctor._

_Haha, what gives you that idea? JW_

_Just a hunch._

* * *

Within just two weeks, he finds a large group of Moriarty's minions "hiding" in an abandoned shed not too far off from Porrentruy, and their rather severe lack of intelligence make them horrible at hiding. Again, dull.

Of course, they are rather low in the ranks and know only useless tidbits of information. He himself has already taken into account all the things that they learned only recently even before the fall. However, they act as if they have the world. They do say that bravery is just a nice word for stupidity.

"Well, if it isn't Mister Holmes," a goon states, a look of derision on his face. Early thirties, probably around thirty-two years of age. Drug addict, also a chronic gambler. Joined for money to get out of debt, how obvious. Sherlock takes no heed—idiots are idiots. "We were told about you. Heard you're a genius."

"Pleased to be famous," he replies, voice low—there is no good that comes out of wasting his energy on something as trivial as talking—and rather amused at the prospect of sending these idiots to where they belong. They are as dumb as Anderson, if not worse: and, really, he is rather surprised that there are people that can possibly be worse than Anderson but he's finding out that anything is possible these days.

After all, Sherlock Holmes—the only consulting detective in the world, brother of the British Government personified, self-proclaimed, highly-functioning sociopath—is on a two-year journey to rid of everything that comprises Moriarty's beating heart.

The goon smiles crookedly and unsheathes a gun from his side. "Ready?" he asks mockingly as he takes the safety off his gun.

Sherlock grins predatorily and whistles a short tune as a signal to the police that are hiding not too far from them: as if he needs to get his hands dirty for these bumbling fools. If they weren't smart enough to realize that he would bring back-up as well in a situation where he would be at such a disadvantage in numbers. The more visible this situation becomes to the local government, the more disadvantageous the situation will become for them.

A few moments later, the local authorities rush in, grabbing Moriarty's underlings with a ferocity that Sherlock finds himself longing for (they're startlingly similar to Scotland Yard, except the fact that they're not_ them_).

* * *

_You never really told me what you do for a living. I'm guessing you're an adult, by how you text? JW_

_I'm a musician._

_Really? That's bloody awesome. What instrument? JW_

_The violin—not too famous, though. Just starting out, really._

_That's still amazing! I'm too clumsy to play an instrument. JW_

_You're selling yourself out short._

_How would you know that? JW_

_I just know._

_What, are you psychic, too? JW_

_I just know you._

_Who are you? JW_

_God, I—you're Sherlock, aren't you? I knew it, you're alive, Sherlock, please just— JW_

_Sherlock, it's you isn't it, Sherlock, Sherlock please JW_

_I'm not Sherlock._

* * *

Sherlock scrolls through the conversation in silence. His once-immaculate curly hair is completely disheveled, dark bags that have slowly formed over time seem to have taken permanent residence under his eyes, and for once in his life, he hasn't bothered to shave the stubble that is starting to grow on his chin.

The hotel room that he found not too far from the busy streets of Seoul, South Korea, is completely dark—the blinds have been closed, and he has turned off every single light switch in the room—excluding the glow of his phone screen.

John, he thinks desperately. John, John, John, he chants in his mind over and over again, closing his eyes and running spider-thin fingers through his hair. His fingers twitch out a shaky rhythm on his scalp, his breath hissing out between his teeth.

Sherlock cradles his head against his bony elbows and sighs, letting a shudder course through his spine.

John Hamish Watson remains the only man in the world that can make him undone.

He wonders how he survived so long without knowing the man.

* * *

_I told you, I'm Ben._

_I just—I'm sorry, so sorry Ben. I don't know what came over me. JW_

_Sounds like an interesting fellow, this Sherlock. Who is he?_

_The most brilliant man I will ever know. JW_

_My best friend. JW_

_And the man that I went and fell in love with, like an idiot. JW_

_I'm—_

_I'm sorry._

* * *

He is in Saitama, Japan, when he meets The Woman. He is walking across a busy street a few blocks from the abandoned building that he is staying in, hiding quicksilver eyes behind brown contact lenses and clad in a pair of jeans and a black hoodie.

"Mr. Holmes," she responds in a breathy voice. "What a pleasure it is to meet you again." Her hair plays around the sides of her face as a bitter gust of wind swoops down upon them. He holds on to the strings of his hoodie and twirls it around his finger in an adept imitation of a particularly useless habit.

"Ms. Adler," Sherlock replies, voice purposely disinterested. He looks at her, eyeing the dark circles beneath her eyes and the pallid shade of her face. The dark coat she has on hides her figure somewhat, but he can tell that she has become rather thin between the while they had not seen each other. Suffering from insomnia, constant running away, has enough money to bustle about without much effort, still works as a dominatrix.

Once, he might have believed that what he felt for her was attraction, but now he is aware of the fact that it was not her that was attractive, but her intelligence.

But she isn't John.

Irene smiles coyly. "I hear you're quite the hit man these days, Mr. Holmes," she says, her voice curling around him in a haze of nostalgia. He notes that she smells like a cup of bitter tea in a rainy day. "Are you having fun with your games?"

The games I could've played next to you, the silence adds. He has learned enough of social mannerisms throughout his adventure to understand that some things are better left unsaid.

"This," he replies, spreading his arms and motioning at everything that surrounds both of them, "is not a game." There is a sharp look in his eyes that pieces through the Woman, and a tremor runs through her spine.

The Woman eyes him, almost leering at him through murky gray eyes. "Oh?" she asks, inching closer and closer against his body. "Then what is it?" Her arms snake around his waist as she coils herself around him, resting her head on his chest. Her voice is breathy, seductive, but not at all enamoring as it reaches his ears.

Sherlock watches Saitama's skies as it turns a murky gray. "This?" he repeats, spitting the word with as much contempt and disgust he is able to muster in his tired body. Crimson red begins to seep into his vision, rolling across in lazy waves.

"This is war."

* * *

_How long must this farce continue? MH_

_A few more months at most._

_Your name is already cleared. Moriarty's criminal association is nonexistent, save for some rather pitiful remains. I believe it best if you return as fast as possible. MH_

_I do believe that you are already aware that my name has nothing to do with this. This isn't finished, Mycroft. I still have the Moran left._

_I am already aware, dear brother. Others are suffering because of you: surely you are aware. MH_

_You are acting a child. MH_

_This is not even remotely childish, Mycroft._

_I do believe Doctor Watson is suffering dreadfully because of your "death." MH_

_Is there something wrong with John._

_It would be best for you to find out for yourself. It is not my position to tell you. MH_

* * *

Sherlock takes a quick detour to London, donning green contacts and a wig the color of sunsets. The inconspicuous gray hoodie that has become his standard apparel feels awkward as he walks on the streets of his home, watching people pass by in search of one Dr. John Hamish Watson.

Instead, he bumps into a man with thinning gray hair and a defeated slump in his shoulders.

"Sorry," the man says, looking up slowly to face him. "Wasn't looking," he explains. Sherlock erases all traces of surprise on his face as he finds himself looking at a familiar face.

It is DI Lestrade. He has become thinner, so much older, and there is approximately 7.4% more gray hair on his head than prior to his "death". The defeated look on his face seems to be almost standard fare: it looks like it's been there for a while now. He always did have a sense of extreme self-responsibility.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade gasps, clutching him by the shoulders and shaking him violently. "Is that you?" There is a flicker of hope in the man's eyes as he looks at him, the slump in his shoulders suddenly gone as he continues to shake him with a desperatio n that sears into his heart.

_Yes_, he wants to say. There is a bitter taste spreading in his mouth as he watches the DI look at him, eyes darting to and fro on his excruciatingly normal disguise. _You see, but you don't observe, do you? Is it nice, not being me, being so simple?_

Outwardly, however, Sherlock dons a perfect caricature of confusion on his face. "Sorry, mate. I think you got the wrong person."

Lestrade's hands fall to his sides, as if all his strength suddenly left him barren and hopeless. "Sorry," he says apologetically, rubbing his face against the inside of his hands. "Of course, I just—I don't know what came over me."

"It's okay," Sherlock states, lowering his voice somewhat. "No harm done."

Lestrade sighs, nodding mindlessly as he continues to look at Sherlock. "What's your name?"

"Benedict," he says. "Benedict Cumberbatch, but people just call me Ben."

"That's a mouthful," Lestrade says, a hint of a smile on his lips. Secretly Sherlock agrees, but it's an interesting name, quite amusing, really. "I'm Gregory Lestrade, but just call me Greg."

"Nice to meet you Greg," Sherlock says. There is a small smile stretching his lips apart and a part of him observes Lestrade for any kind of physical damage or injury, all the while thinking about what Moriarty had told him before he had "fallen."

The smile is wiped cleanly off his face. It's better this way, he thinks for a second. Less lies.

"I've got to go," Sherlock states. John, he thinks, quicksilver mind going haywire. "I've someone to—" Sherlock gives Lestrade a small nod before turning around, only to see John coming over their way.

He stops.

John's limp has returned, more pronounced than before, and there are more lines in his face than he could remember. His face is perpetually frowning, there is a stubble on his chin that has not been left unshaved, and he looks incredibly distressed and so, so tired. He looks as if the world has shunned him: and to a certain degree, it did. Still is, actually, but less pronounced than before.

"John!" Lestrade greets, walking over to John. They share a look with each other—Lestrade's face is scrawled with worry, while John averts his gaze to Ben-currently-not-Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John breathes out, eyes going wide, his entire body going rigid with shock. "You're—" John chokes on his own words before he can speak, and opts to leave the words unspoken.

"This isn't Sherlock," Lestrade tells John, softening his voice as if it would soften the wince that courses through John. "This bloke's named Ben. I thought he was Sherlock, too, but he's not him. Hell, he's a ginger for god's sake!"

John suddenly seems to sag into himself, as if the world has decided to put all its weight on his shoulders. "Is that so," John murmurs, stealing glances at him with desperate eyes. "I'm sorry, uh, Ben," he apologizes, drawling out his name. "Just thought you looked really similar to a friend of mine."

There is a feeling of desperation clawing in his mind, threatening to rip his brilliant mind into a million shreds. This is not the John he had left behind—this one is resigned, desperate, broken.

And there is nobody to blame but himself. His mind had failed him—the deductions were all wrong, so wrong, John was supposed to be together with Sarah and getting over his death, slowly but surely, and after all was done he would return and everything would go back to normal, John wasn't supposed to be so lost—and he realizes, John is the one person he can never completely deduce.

"I—" Sherlock pauses, unable to continue this little play of two rundown men and one man in disguise. "I have to go," he says to them, a small smile on his lips. Utterly fake, so fake, how can he smile when he sees the people he deems as his friends suffer so much?

The two men look at him, both nodding at him with strained smiles on their own faces. "Bye then, Ben. Nice meeting you."

Nodding in their direction, Sherlock turns and walks away from them as fast as possible.

He guesses he can't continue acting like a complete sociopath much longer, if these feelings continue to persist.

Having these feelings hurt so much more than he had ever thought. Is this what people feel their whole lives?

It hurts so much.

He doesn't know how they do it.

* * *

_"I was so alone—and I owe you so much."_

* * *

_Why didn't you tell me he was like this?_

_Must I remind you that it wasn't my place to tell you? MH_

_He's broken, Mycroft._

_He's not John._

_You need to fix him._

_It's not my duty to help him, dear brother. MH_

_You are the only one who can fix him. MH_

_I can only tell you to hurry. MH_

* * *

He meets Sebastian Moran for the first (and, hopefully, for the very last) time.

A man that has served in the Royal Army alongside his John, a man that is so unbearably close to his main goal, a man that was once in the same position as John, but chose to go along with Moriarty.

He is nothing like John.

Sherlock is infinitely glad to know that John is unique, one-of-a-kind, and so, so different than this man with a shark grin and a gun in each hand, obviously eager to pull the trigger and be done with. It is completely assuring of his mental capacity, to be such a brute of such staggering height and so little thought.

"It's really a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes the younger," Moran states, a quiet look of glee on his face. "Jim had told me a lot about you. Said you were a genius, just like him. And as true as that statement might be…"

Moran smirks.

"…it won't be true if your brain's splattered on the ground now, would it?" he finishes, pointing his gun at Sherlock. "I mean," he continues in a—really, extremely—horrible attempt at humor, "nobody's a genius when they're dead."

"No," Sherlock agrees, "they're not." His eyes dart to and fro, taking in the scene and various methods to use against Moran.

Los Angeles, America. Empty warehouse, used to be a store a few decades prior, used as a hideout long before, immaculately tidy, no windows, horrible ventilation, located few kilometers from the nearest sign of human habitation. He looks at Moran and analyzes him: early thirties, primarily right-handed, left the army due to being far too trigger-happy, posh, rather stuck-up, excellent marksman and eager to please James Moriarty to a fault. Possibly in a physical relationship with him—or at least, was. He made sure that the man was dead long before he started this.

Of course, he has his own back-up plan(s) ready: he has alerted Mycroft of the situation a few hours before this confrontation began, and he is mildly reassured that if anything goes wrong—it won't, he is sure of it, he has to go back to John and there will be no distractions—then at least someone will be able to put an end to it all.

"So?" Moran asks, smirking as if everything that led up to this was just a big joke. "What're you here for? Here to end me?"

Sherlock pretends to be puzzled—he blinks innocently a few times. "End you? End _you_?" he responds, a small smile threatening to make its way on his lips. "No, not really."

He pauses, letting the smile twist his lips into something mocking and sardonic. "You're not that important."

This seems to aggravate him. Good, he thinks.

"You—you're just a _freak_," Moran spits out, seething with anger. "You can't beat Jim—he's too good of an opponent for you. Even dead, he'll beat you."

Petty insults do not bother him. Admittedly, it took a while for him to completely master the skill of ignoring barbed insults, but years of bullying and taunts make it easy: now, he does not flinch or show any kind of reaction, let alone allow such comments to bother him in any way. He finds it extremely amusing to note that Moran is slowly turning puce, infuriated at his lack of response.

"No," Sherlock replies, purposely ignoring his words and staring straight at Moran's dark brown eyes. "Not particularly. He made a basic mistake that nobody should ever make, and he merely lost because of that one, _single,_ mistake."

Moran bares his teeth as he literally growls, looking bestial as he grinds out, "What is it."

He plays dumb. It really doesn't suit him, Sherlock tells himself, but this is far too amusing to let go, and he is biding his time so Mycroft's men can catch him at first try. "What's what?" he asks, lilting his voice.

"The mistake," the blonde hisses out.

"Oh, that," Sherlock replies, smiling deviously. "Quite simple, really. I do hope you remember it, if you live."

He looks at Moran straight in the eyes.

"Nobody, nobody threatens my heart."

As soon as he says the last word, Mycroft's men run into the building, forcing Moran to release his weapons as he is surrounded by armored agents.

He does not shoot him. There is no need to waste a bullet on scum like him, especially when the gun is John's precious smuggled army gun. He is cold and he may be cruel, but he knows that Moran will not break under him. He may, however, be suicidal under Mycroft's strict regime of torture and repeat. Mycroft is absolutely insufferable, after all.

A moment later, he is out of the warehouse and hears a loud gunshot that rings in the air. He doesn't even attempt to hide the glee that emanates within him.

* * *

_"How boring. You're one of them." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It makes Sherlock think of looking at a mirror, with all his faults laid bare for all to see. To know that he is like this man is one thing, but seeing it, feeling it in the goosebumps on his arms and the chill in his spine is completely different._

_"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."_

_They look at each other, at the reflections of what they could have become, once upon a lifetime._

* * *

_It's over._

_I commend you, dear brother. MH_

_I need to get back._

_You've become quite reliant on me, haven't you? MH_

_Sod off, Mycroft. I need to get to London as fast as possible._

_The preparations are complete. Go to the LAX. There will be a jet waiting. MH_

_…thank you._

* * *

The wig and colored contacts are long gone. For the first time in two years, Sherlock revels in his attire: a silk collared shirt, slacks, leather shoes, and a long coat with a scarf. He looks more haggard than before—obvious, he has been busy these few years, after all, no time to waste for something as petty as nutrition—but he's back, but his heart feels warm and comfortable.

He allows himself to feel sentimental for a few seconds before he walks to the end of the sidewalk to catch a cab. It is a rather dreary night, with pavements slick with rain that stopped approximately twenty minutes ago, just moments before his arrival.

"221B Baker Street," he instructs the cabbie. Everything feels so much more real, now that he can say it out loud. The idea that has kept him going on, the thought of going back home to where John is, probably sipping a cup of tea in utter silence, with haggard lines on his face and his mousey-blonde hair unkempt, makes him feel so much emotions that he begins to wonder when he has become so human.

The cab rattles slightly as the engine starts, and Sherlock finds it hard to get the prospect of returning out of his mind. Every turn they make, every stop they make between streets, every single turn of the wheel—it is a bit closer to home.

He wonders how John will react.

He remembers how John looked, the last time he saw him.

Suddenly, there is a sense of panic that surges through him, overtaking his mind and adrenaline is rushing in his veins, and oh god, John, John, John John John, oh god.

He had not put this in his calculations. The devastated look on his face, the hollows of his cheeks, eyes full of anguish and pure loss, the returned limp and—no. God, no, he wouldn't, he can't, but John has always been so unpredictable, a complete anomaly in Sherlock's deductive capabilities, and the what-ifs in his mind are jumping around frantically in his mind palace, ruining carefully constructed rooms filled with conversations with one John Watson and replacing it with sheer dread and panic.

The cab feels too slow for his liking—he needs to go back immediately, as fast as humanly possible—but it is already going as fast as it can in a street with only a few cars passing by, all going the opposite direction.

Not fast enough, he thinks to himself, eyes darting to and fro on the dark streets of London. The cab slowly brakes to a halt, and Sherlock hurriedly pays his dues—20 pounds, not too little but obviously a bit too pricey—before leaping out of the door and standing in front of 221B Baker Street.

There is no light streaming from the windows. John always likes keeping the lights on.

He panics, hurriedly unlocking the door. Mrs. Hudson is not here. He goes up the stairs swiftly but silently, trying his best not to alert anyone of his presence.

John's bedroom door is not entirely closed. There is a slight crack in the entrance, and Sherlock slowly opens it to find nobody in the room.

Where are you, John?

Sherlock goes down the stairs and to the living room. John is curled up on the sofa, clutching one of his scarves in his sleep, mumbling something in his sleep that makes his defenses crumble into pieces.

"Sher'ock," John slurs, "no, Sherlock…"

Something in his mind cleanly snaps into two, and Sherlock finds that he is not in control of his body anymore. He steps towards John quickly but quietly and throws both arms around him, burying his nose into John's mousey-gold locks of hair and breathing in.

John suddenly moves with a dexterity and speed that can only come from a trained soldier, one unable to completely relax—idly, he wonders exactly how he let that tidbit slip from his mind (it was useless in his expedition)—and pins him down on the floor, twisting his arms on his back. Army man, yes, he had left that out of the tangent once again. John is always so comfortable that he sometimes forgets how he ended up living with Sherlock.

"Who—" John starts, and grows silent as he sees who it is. "Sherlock," he breathes out, his body completely slack as he immediately gets off Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock responds, slowly standing up and looking at him without any indication of surprise. He stares at him, eyes locked with John's soft brown ones to prove that yes, he is Sherlock Holmes and yes, he has been alive the whole time. "How have you been?"

John gapes at him, eyes wide and jaws slack. Suddenly, there is a crackle of emotion in the air and he straightens his posture, closes off the emotion in his face and glares at him.

"How have I been?" John asks, voice low and venomous. "How have I been?" he repeats, his eyes bright with anger as they glare at him. It makes Sherlock incredibly happy to know that John is not completely broken yet. "Yes, I've been bloody fine, can't you see that? My best friend committed suicide and came back at three in the bloody morning and I've been just-fucking-fine, yes, and now that he's back I'm just bloody dandy. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Although it had, in fact, been what he had wanted to hear, Sherlock cannot get himself to admit it. "No," he replies hurriedly, gauging John's reactions via the small tremors that run through the shorter man's spine. "Not that."

"Then what did you expect?" John asks, his expression dimming. "I still haven't even gotten over the fact that you're—you're alive—not…" He stops himself from saying the word before he chokes on it, and Sherlock only watches him with those odd-colored eyes. Not helping, he thinks to himself as he stares right back at him. He has gone through too many things after his so-called death that his stare will no longer faze him.

"John," Sherlock says, attempting to get closer to him. John keeps the distance between them, taking a step back when Sherlock takes a step towards him.

"Sherlock," John responds levelly. "What were you expecting?"

Sherlock stumbles on his words, unable to create a coherent words with all the things he can say and should say and probably can't say all jumbled up in his head, leaving him an incoherent mess. There are so many things he can do, but human interaction has never been his forte and this is one of the few times where it is absolutely vital. "I—" He pauses. "I don't know," he whispers. He hates himself. He feels like a child.

John continues to look at him, a few steps apart from a man that is crumbling into pieces.

He sighs. "Tomorrow," he states, slowly walking towards Sherlock and stretching out a hand. "You're explaining everything to me tomorrow. Right now we're going to sleep."

Sherlock looks at him, suddenly a child.

"Not good?" he asks, staring right at John.

John shakes his head. "Bit not good, yeah," he says. "You're tired, Sherlock. I can see that even when we're standing here in the middle of my dark room like a pair of sodding idiots. When was the last time you slept?" he asks. When Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, John shoots him a look that immediately silences him.

"And I'm tired too. Seeing a dead friend stand in front of me takes out a lot," he continues, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock. "Just tell me in the morning. It's two in the morning, for god's sake."

Sherlock nods, lost and confused at the sudden turn of events. This was not how he had thought this situation was going to be. He had expected so much more conflicts and more—he's not sure what he expected now, but he knows that it's not this—and to see everything sailing so smoothly was rather frightening. It would be better if John yells at him, hits him, throws a punch before limping away from him and slams the door shut.

Instead, John lends him a hand and leads Sherlock to his own room. Sherlock's room had been left untouched for the entire time, and there is too much dust in the room to even begin to think about cleaning the room at this time.

"Here," John states. "Sleep on my bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Sherlock watches him, nodding mindlessly as John drags him to his bed—clean, unused for the last weeks, but still washed every other week just to be on the safe side—and pushes him onto the mattress. He flops onto the mattress like a rag doll, completely still as his eyes roam across the blank ceiling above him as he slowly falls asleep, completely relaxed for the first time since his so-called death.

Dimly, he hears a door shut closed and footsteps trudging away from where he is.

* * *

_Mycroft. I'm assuming you knew of this? JW_

_Of course. I am nothing if uninformed, after all. By the by, how are you, John? MH_

_Why didn't you tell me? Why couldn't you—why couldn't you tell me? JW_

_I am assuming Sherlock has not informed you of his reasons behind this situation. MH_

_He's passed out on my bed. JW_

_I have told him multiple times to rest. It seems that I have been ignored. MH_

_That—did you keep contact with him during the last two years? The whole time? JW_

_Indeed. MH_

_I just—sod off. And don't call me John. JW_

_You're very welcome. MH_

* * *

When Sherlock wakes up, he finds himself in a sea of blankets and a dim room.

John's, he deduces in his mind. This is John's room.

Just a few seconds later, John knocks on the door.

"Sherlock," he calls. "I know you're awake. I'm going in, okay?"

Sherlock opts not to reply as the door slowly opens.

"John," he says, watching him with hawk eyes. There are dark circles under John's blue eyes, his hair is all over the place, and his clothes are rumpled and he definitely did not get any sleep.

"Sherlock," John replies evenly, determined not to lose his temper. "You look a bit better. How are you feeling?"

The taller man doesn't reply and continues watching him.

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Still tired?"

"No." Sherlock fixes him with a glare. "Those aren't the questions you want me to answer."

John shakes his head, as if tired. "Not now, Sherlock."

"John."

John visibly tenses. Sherlock can see John's mind working, valiantly attempting to calm himself down but failing—John has always been a good man, but people are not so infallible.

"Do you—" John starts, anger and resentment pouring from him like a tidal wave, "god, Sherlock, do you know how much—" He stops. There is a tired look on his face that makes Sherlock want to grimace, almost. John looks down and slowly shakes his head. "I just—I can't do this. Stop. Just stop."

"I love you."

John looks up, shock written on his face.

"What are you—"

"I'm not going to say it more than once."

"Sherlock, I—"

He stands in a whoosh of movement and straightens his back, staring right into John's eyes.

"I'm…sorry," Sherlock says, "for hurting you. I did this," he continues as he gestures towards himself. "I did this for you." He pauses, pursing his thin lips together. He meets John's eyes for a split second before looking at his hands.

"I want an explanation."

"Moriarty," Sherlock states.

"Good, but not good enough," John states. He tries his best to sound cold, but a hint of curiosity seeps into his tone anyway. "Why did you do it? The note? The fall? How was this 'for me'?"

"He had snipers on the three people I cared for," Sherlock hisses. "I have been sadly informed that I have no heart," he says, repeating his words at the Pool. That incident deserves a title on its own.

John looks up, sharp, soldier eyes trained on his every motion.

"We both know that's not true," John repeats slowly, remembering what Moriarty had said.

"You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade."

"Dead, unless you die."

Sherlock nods, a look of pride on his face for a few seconds. He's really improving in leaps and bounds. "Yes," he agrees, keen on saying it out loud.

"You know," John starts, "I never pegged you as the self-sacrificing type. Especially not after you told me that there are no such things as heroes. And you know—" he states, "I shouldn't even be surprised at this. Maybe I knew you were alive. In my heart, in my head—I couldn't accept the fact that you were gone, yeah? It hurt, like someone ripped off my limb and I couldn't function right, no matter what I did. Always uneven, always less than enough, always."

He shakes his head slowly and breathes in, once, twice, thrice.

"And it hurt, just hurt so much, and I couldn't think and do anything because of the fact that you weren't there with me," he continues, his breathing coarse and uneven.

"You could have told me, Sherlock. You could have taken me with you, could have told me you were alive and that you weren't dead and you would come back, you bloody git."

Sherlock's head snaps up and looks at him. "I needed you to be safe. I needed you to believe I was dead, for your protection."

John shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong."

"I ensured your safety, John. I couldn't endanger you."

"Bullshit," John snaps. "Is it that hard for you to understand? I purposely put my life in danger the moment I shot that cabbie. I made the conscious choice before I moved into 221B Baker Street. I signed myself up for this. Hell, I get off on this, and you know bloody well that I'm able to fend for myself. You didn't do it for me, you did it for the idea of saving me. I never needed any saving in the first place."

Sherlock looks up, his eyes bright with sudden realization as if the idea had just barely dawned upon him.

"John, I—"

"You're a bloody git," John begins, but he closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I shouldn't forgive you for this," he states, "but all I can think of right now is the fact that you're alive and in front of me. Just…just give me a few days, alright?"

Sherlock nods his assent. There is no viable option but the one that is currently in front of him.

The doctor stands up and limps towards the door, closing it shut in his wake.

He closes his eyes, but the echoes of words unspoken keep him unable to do much else.

* * *

_You expected this. SH_

_Obviously so. Do keep up, little brother. I believe your skills have dulled during your hiatus. MH_

_Welcome back, by the way. MH_

* * *

Sherlock stares at the smiley face on the wall with morbid fascination.

The crooked, spray-painted smile it adorns on its yellow face seems taunting, saying that it has watched over the slow self-destruction of one Doctor Watson throughout the passage of time. That it was there when nobody else was, eerily smiling in the background against a wall of fleur de 'lis.

It has been four days after John has left 221B, and he is yet to return. A part of Sherlock wants to find him and drag him back if needed, but he is aware of the fact that if he does so, the situation will only become infinitely worse.

He is not going to risk losing John because of his own selfishness.

A part of him aches, though, at the fact that John is yet to return. He did what he did to ensure John's safety, even if it had caused more pain than relief. The idea that he has caused more damage than what he could have done pains him, jagged and painful at the edges of his mind. It pokes and prods and he wants to succumb to it, but he is Sherlock Holmes.

He just wants to be relieved already.

He has lived under stress and exhaustion for the last two years, and all he wants to do is be home, with John and cases and Mrs. Hudson cleaning after their mess while reprimanding them. He just wants to return to how it was.

The door creaks open.

John slowly limps in, dark circles prominent against his sallow skin.

"Sherlock," John says, conviction in his voice.

Sherlock meets John's chocolate-brown eyes. "John," Sherlock responds.

"Welcome back."

* * *

It is not the same as two years ago.

It can't be the same as then—too much has changed. They have changed.

It's an inherent fact of life that things change over time, and the last two years have not been easy on the both of them.

As Sherlock buries his nose in John's mousey-blond hair and inhales everything that makes John—the smell of cologne, tea leaves, and gun smoke—he finds that he has no qualms whatsoever about their current arrangements.

* * *

_John. SH_

_John. SH_

_John. SH_

_John. SH_

_Stop spamming me, you damn git. So help me god, I will shoot you if you send me one more text. JW_

_Don't forget to stop by Tesco. We're out of digestives and eyeballs. SH_

_You're insufferable. JW_

* * *

It was written on a whim, and it escalated so quickly I couldn't say "jackrabbit" without it attacking me. Thank you for reading!

Please review! Constructive criticism is welcome. :)


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